


C.A.M.

by CityofFallenAngels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Love, Friendship, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Whump, Mycroft-centric, Protective Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:48:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityofFallenAngels/pseuds/CityofFallenAngels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr Holmes?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	C.A.M.

**Author's Note:**

> "And what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr Holmes?” 
> 
> The corners of Sherlock’s lips curled.
> 
> “My brother.”
> 
> The first time I had heard it when I watched the episode, the very first thought in my head was that Sherlock literally meant that he would hand his brother over, not a laptop. It was intriguing, and I could not stop thinking about it. Thus this story idea was born. Enjoy.

John should have known that Christmas with the Holmes family would never be normal. To his fairness, the day had passed quite uneventfully. Mrs Holmes made a mean fruit cake, and he had been pleasantly surprised by the utter ordinariness of his eccentric partner's parents. _And he was reconciling with his wife._  He had confronted her with the thumb drive in hand, surprising her when he said he had not accessed it. Flinging it into the fireplace was like flinging away part of the resentment inside him. Deep down, he still loved her, but he was not naïve enough to think that he wouldn't bear some resentment towards her. But presently they hugged, and that was that. Relief eased his tensed muscles, and John thought all was well. Until she fainted right in his arms. John gasped, calling her several times. When she did not respond he quickly laid her down on the armchair, doctor's instincts kicking in. It was then Sherlock's head magically popped from behind the doorway. His face bore a tell-tale ‘I'm planning something’ face. He quipped, “Don’t drink Mary’s tea. Or the punch!” before disappearing. 

John sputtered. He quickly stormed after Sherlock, passing by a snoring Mr Holmes on the couch. "Sherlock! What did you do?" he demanded. The detective ignored him all the way till they arrived at the kitchen. It was then John saw Mrs Holmes passed out on the chair as well with her mouth hanging wide and Mycroft slumped over the kitchen table. His eyes bugged out. 

“Did you just drug my _pregnant_   _wife_? And the  _British Government_?” he hissed. 

“Don’t worry, Wiggins is an excellent Chemist.” As though that explained all. The detective unaffectedly placed a palm over his brother’s nose. After a beat he pulled away, seemingly satisfied.

“What the hell have you done?”

Sherlock looked down. “A deal...with the devil.”

_In a quaint little hospital café, a tall suited man sat opposite Sherlock, who looked like the opposite end of the health spectrum. The man had small, calculating eyes, boring deeply into Sherlock's. His plate was empty, and his hands were entwined in front of him._

_"And what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr Holmes?”_

_The corners of Sherlock’s lips curled._

_“My brother.”_

_._

_._

“Oh, Jesus,” John’s eyes fell on Mycroft. “You’re using him as a deal for Magnussen."

“That was the deal.”

“Are you out of your _bloody_ mind-”

“John, do quieten down.” Sherlock was starting to get a headache from the doctor’s incessant shouting. "It's the one leverage I have against him, the one thing I have that he covets." Sherlock explained as though he was talking to a dim-witted three-year old. He focused back on the important task at hand and slipped on a pair of gloves.

“How long do the drugs last for?” 

“Until the antidote is given. I gave him a heavier sedative I designed with Wiggins myself. I found it imperative due to his size and all.” He said almost proudly.

“You’re guaranteed it works?” John knew of Sherlock’s many ‘experiments’, none which he was confident of. He deigned not to mention the amount of poor living creatures the detective had killed while doing his ‘experiments’.

“Of course it works. My experiments never fail.” Sherlock looked slightly offended. “The worst that could happen is the subject would never regain consciousness. Now instead of just standing there like a lamp why don’t you help me?”

“Help you? You’re kidnapping a government official, for Christ’s sake. It’s a felony if I know it. And if your antidote doesn't work he could comatose—”

 “I don’t see what the loss is in that frankly, the idea of him not waking up is very tempting—”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m joking. Of course I tested it! Just  _trust_  me, why don’t you?” Sherlock snapped.

Ignoring the doctors further rebuttals, Sherlock pulled out the chair Mycroft was sitting on, slipping one arm under his back. Mycroft was taller and obviously heavier than Sherlock. His unresistant body did no help as he was just a mass of floppy limbs. He dearly hoped his brother  _had_  been losing weight, because he hadn't factored the weight of his brother into the plan.  With some trouble, Sherlock managed to hoist him into his arms. To his surprise Mycroft was much lighter than he expected. Perhaps he  _had_  been sticking to his diet.

John watched all of this and shook his head. “You are  _not_ kidnapping the British government.”

“This is a trade,” he said coolly. “A necessary evil. I’m willing to take the risk.”

“He’s your  _brother_. I know you hate him but…god.” John felt enraged at Sherlock for being so flippant about it. "How did you even catch him off-guard?"

"Oh, he knew he was getting drugged. But he doesn't know of my plan."

A loud helicopter whirling sounded outside the house, cutting off their conversation.

“Ah, there’s our lift.” Sherlock smiled. "Well, Dr. Watson, you can stay here if you wish."

John stepped forward. “I'm going with you. I’ll be damned if I’m letting you do this alone.”

* * *

Once the helicopter descended, guards cloaked in black poured out, armed and dangerous-looking. Two men approached to take Mycroft. To John's disbelieving eyes, Sherlock’s grip tightened, his eyes narrowing. They backed off. They were then ushered none too gently into the helicopter. John and Sherlock sat next to each other, and the chopper took off. The ride was silent, and the tension in the air was thick enough to be sliced with a knife. 

Mycroft lay slumped in Sherlock’s arms, head lying on the crook of his brother’s neck. John checked his breathing, relieved to find it was normal. He fought the urge to strangle Sherlock. Heaven knew they were in enough danger. What human would use their own sibling for a trade to a madman? Then again Sherlock wasn’t like most humans, but that didn’t make John any less irate.

Two guards sat opposite them. They looked unarmed, but when John glanced down from the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of a gun and a Taser under their shirts. Their hands seemed to inch nearer and nearer to the weapons each time John or Sherlock moved even slightly. They glared at the both of them, as though daring them to try anything. The tension climbed when one of the guards lay his hand on the gun.

John didn’t know if he had imagined it, but Sherlock’s hands on Mycroft seemed to tighten a fraction, and he didn’t miss the narrowing of his eyes at the guards. The glare almost looked protective.

This was going to be a long ride.

* * *

They arrived at Magnussen’s secret residence twenty minutes later. Once they touched ground they were frisked for weapons and escorted through a fancy foyer and glass elevator, all the way to the second level. Everything was too white and bright. Sterile.  

At the second level, two curved white leather couches faced each other. And there sat Magnussen. The businessman lounged at the centre of the couch, nursing a glass of amber whiskey in his hand.

“I would offer you a drink but it’s very rare and expensive.”

He turned to them. His bespectacled eyes fell onto Mycroft and they widened with mildly concealed surprise. “Oh, so _this_ is the British Government. You have quite the nerve.”

“Sorry if you’re disappointed, my brother doesn’t really cut a memorable appearance on people."

“Oh, quite the contrary actually. I must say, you surprise me, Sherlock. I never thought you would have the balls to follow through. You must be a lovely brother to have, kidnapping your brother for a deal.” Magnussen’s voice dripped with mockery.

Sherlock replied unrivalled. “Oh, the best.”

Magnussen chuckled. “Leave him here.” He waved ahand nonchalantly the spot beside him.“And sit; it’s an eyesore to see you two standing.”

They did as they were told, aware it would be foolish not to comply with the guards behind them. Sherlock placed Mycroft down on the couch, and with a gesture that made John wonder if he was dreaming, he grabbed one of the throw pillows and slid it under his head. His hand seemed to linger on his brother for a second longer. They then settled on the couch opposite Magnussen.

A projection appeared on the glass wall opposite where they sat. It was the footage of the bonfire, where Sherlock was rescuing John. It played on a continuous loop, the screams and roars of the fire blaring loud. The doctor stared at it, mouth slowly dropping open.

“Oh. It  _was_  you.” Sherlock mused, not fazed.

“Yes, of course. Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes. The drugs thing I never believed for a moment. Anyway, you wouldn’t care if it was exposed, would you?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“But look how you  _care_  about John Watson.” The footage now played in slow motion, showing Sherlock dragging John out of the flames. “Your damsel in distress.”

John watched the burning flames, remembering the scorching heat he had felt.“You put me in a fire for  _leverage_?”

“Oh, I’d never let you burn, Doctor Watson. I had people standing by. I’m not a murderer, unlike your wife. Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson.” He leaned back, as though he was about to tell a story. “For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well... apart from me. Mycroft’s pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock’s pressure point is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson’s pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson’s wife ...I own Mycroft.” Magnussen’s steel-grey eyes landed on Mycroft. His lips curled into a smile that reminded John of a reptile looking at it’s prey. A chill went down the doctor's spine.  “He’s what I’m getting for Christmas.”

“It’s an exchange, not a gift.” Sherlock said.

“Forgive me, but ...” He smirked at Mycroft Holmes. “... I already seem to have it.”

“You don’t have the antidote. He won’t wake unless I give it to you.”

"My, you are devious. One should never underestimate the intelligence of a Holmes.”

“In return for the antidote, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson.”

“Oh, she’s bad, that one. So many dead people. You should see what I’ve seen.”

“I don’t need to see it.” John said.

“You might enjoy it, though.  _I_  enjoy it.”

“Then why don’t you  _show_  us?” Sherlock said.

“Show you Appledore? The secret vaults? Is that what you want?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I want everything you’ve got on Mary.”

Magnussen snorted; it turned into a full-blown laughter. “You know, I honestly expected something good.”

“Oh, I think what you have…”

“Includes a GPS locator inside his suit jacket. Yes, I checked. By now, your brother’s security team would notice something is amiss, and secret services will be converging on this house. Having arrived they’ll find the British Government in my hands and have every jurisdiction to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I’ll be severely incarcerated for kidnapping a state official. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with Mr and Mrs Psychopath.”

If Sherlock was shocked that Magnussen had deduced all of this, he didn’t show it.

The businessman continued. “Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time. He’ll be a very, very proud big brother.”

“The fact that you know it’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it.”

“Then why am I  _smiling_?” He grinned at Sherlock. “Ask me.”

John stepped forward, face twitching. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves…and everything he holds dear.” Magnussen rose up slowly. “Let me show you the Appledore vaults.”

* * *

 They were led across the room, past the glass doors of a study and to great wooden doors at the side of the room.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly. The detective didn’t seem to have heard him. He had gone utterly silent, as though he had shut down.

“The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you all.” Magnussen declared. He turned the handles, and pulled the doors open. A brightly-lit empty white room with a single chair in the centre greeted them.

“Okay. So where are the vaults, then?” John asked.

“Vaults? What vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building.” Magnussen had the gall to look surprised. He strolled in and sat onto the single chair, gesturing like a pleased cat around the room. “They’re all in here.”

It was the first time John had noticed the great Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words. Something seemed to dawn in his eyes, something akin to horror and realisation.

“The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace. You know about Mind Palaces, don’t you, Sherlock? How to store information so you never forget it – by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes ... and down I go to my vaults. I’ll look at the files on Mrs Watson…” Magnussen’s fingers moved in the air, as though he was flipping through folders.

“Mmm…oh, it’s so exciting. All those wet jobs for the CIA… _ooh_ , she’s gone a bit freelance now. Bad girl. Tsk, tsk. Ah, she is so wicked.” Magnussen’s voice dripped with mockery and he seemed to slip the folder back. “I can really see why you like her.”

John cleared his throat. “So there are no documents. You don’t actually have anything here.”

“Oh, sometimes I send out for something, if I really need it…” he glanced at his watch. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. “... but mostly I just remember it all.

“I don’t understand.” John said.

“You should have that on a T-shirt.”

“You just remember it all?”

“It’s all about knowledge.  _Everything_  is. Knowing is owning.”

“But if you just  _know_  it, then you don’t have proof.” John insisted.

Magnussen barked out a laughter.  

“Proof? What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron. I don’t have to prove it – I just have to print it. Speaking of news, you’ll both be heavily featured tomorrow – trying to sell state secrets to me and kidnapping the British Government.” He tutted, and looked back at his watch again. “I don’t have to do the killing, they will. Come, let’s go back up. The party will be here shortly.”

* * *

 John’s head was spinning. His mind was on high alert, trying to grasp the situation they were in. Sherlock hadn’t made a sound. He looked frozen and did not respond to John’s hissed whispers. Great. They returned to the sitting area, where the guards were still there with Mycroft. Their eyes followed their every move, hands prepared on the gun.

Magnussen sat back on the couch beside Mycroft, leaving them standing.

“You know, Sherlock.” He said conversationally. “Your brother always intrigued me. The British Government, or rather Mycroft, as the rest are quite incompetent fools, has been far by the biggest thorn in my side. Him and M16,” Magnussen sneered. “...have severely inconvenienced me in the past. Silly traditional people with their rigid rules. A bunch of bumbling suited and armed twats with their undying loyalty to  _Queen and country_. Interfering incessantly with politics and war and ‘ _doing the right thing’._  Yet I have to admit they are a formidable force. Probably the only saving grace of England. Perhaps you too, the foolish consulting detective of England shall be the only saving grace this country has.” Magnussen laughed long and hard, finding it funny. Sherlock didn’t.   

"You flatter him." He merely said.

"Oh, but you don't know, do you? Little Holmes isn't aware of what elder brother's done. Mycroft Holmes is one of the most powerful man in the world. He stopped two wars, ruined countless of my plans, like a thorn that just can’t die…” Disdain dripped in his voice. If there was ever a moment that John doubted Mycroft’s importance or dangerousness, it was all thrown out of the window now. “But what is he without that tailored pin-striped suit?  _What is he without anything?_ ”

Magnussen’s fingers snaked towards Mycroft’s red silk tie. He untied it, letting it slide to the floor.

"Why do you think Mycroft didn't want you to look up on me? Big brother was trying to protect his little brother, but as usual little brother was being stubborn."

Sherlock flinched. Mycroft's stern voice echoed in his mind.

_"Magnussen is not your business."_

_"Oh, you mean he’s _yours_." _

_You may consider him under my protection."_

_"I consider you under his thumb."_

Magnussen’s voice pulled him back into reality.

"It is truly such a pity. Because your brother and I have had a....challenging relationship. It's such a shame. He's more powerful than many men in the world combined, a strength he could have used _with_ me, yet he uses his power for the 'greater good'. Such a shame. Such a shame.For years I dreamed of having him in my hands.. the thorn whom I could never find a weakness to, aside from you of course, and you brought him right to my doorstep, like the naïve little fool you are. You can't entirely be blamed of course. You didn't know of the relationship we had. He's always been trying to uphand me." 

The thin fingers then reached to the first button of the dress shirt, and unbuttoned it. “He thinks he can own me.”

Magnussen moved down to unbutton the second, and then the third. “ _Be one step ahead of me.”_ He pushed the fabric open. John felt Sherlock tense beside him. Mycroft’s chest was exposed, and Magnussen’s hand slipped in. “Control _me._ He may be one of the most powerful man in the world, but the Government is still human, is he not?” Magnussen’s hands curled around Mycroft’s neck, and gripped it tight. When he released his fingers, the skin was a stark red, with white marks. “Because underneath all that, underneath that suit and armour, he’s still made of flesh and blood, as fallible as any other. _Human_. Just like all the other puppets I've killed.”

Magnussen traced his long fingers down Mycroft’s temple to the closed long auburn eyelashes, hovering above them before snaking down to his lips. He parted the bottom lip slightly, stroking it.

Magnussen’s voice dipped into a whisper, as though he was sharing a secret. “You know, I used to stay up late fantasizing how they tasted like. That mouth, with that oh so sharp tongue that could start wars...or prevent it, with a personality like the coldest winter I've ever seen...”

Magnussen bent down, and with Mycroft’s slightly parted lips, crushed his into them. There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Stop.”

Sherlock. The voice was shaking, but John could tell he was trying not to show it. That was all he could register. Sherlock’s voice never shook. 

Magnussen didn’t stop, didn't even seem to hear. The first kiss seemed to trigger something within the madman. He deepened the kiss, forcing his tongue past the unresisting lips, Mycroft unable to fight back. It became rougher, more violent. John watched mutely, nausea filling him. “Such unexpectedly soft lips… for a man with a mouth that can start wars, prevent it…control the power of the world…but underneath all that, he’s  _weak_.”

Magnussen was thrilled.

“Stop it.” The tremor in Sherlock’s voice had grown now, despite his efforts to sound calm.

 _Sherlock._ John wanted nothing more than to reach out to the detective.

“Or what? What can you do, little Holmes? He’s mine, isn’t he? You thought you had me with your plan. Oh, Sherlock, so  _naïve_. Didn't expect this, did you?" 

“You sick fuck.” John whispered, disgusted by what he was seeing.

Magnussen chuckled, a strange and perverse laughter that bellowed from within. He continued to abuse Mycroft's mouth as he thrust his tongue inside the unresistant lips, his fingers under the half-unbuttoned shirt, clawing over the naked flesh.

Sherlock went forward, fists clenched.

But with a wave of a distracted hand, as though he was dispelling vermin, both the doctor and he were slammed to the floor on their knees by the henchmen in seconds, arms pinned behind them. The click of a gun sounded next to Sherlock's temple.

“I don’t care if you kill me.” Sherlock spat bitterly.

“Of course you don’t. So wouldn’t your self-sacrificial, noble little soldier friend…but it's another story if I killed  _him_ , isn't it?”

The gun turned, and aimed straight at Mycroft. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock said, voice tight. 

“I want you to watch,” The businessman pulled away from Mycroft's bruised and bloodied lips. He licked the blood, then slid his tongue down Mycroft’s cheek, hands still over the man’s body. “As I take your brother, as I let you know, for one final moment, that I can control everything...even one of the most powerful man in the world, the  _thorn_  of my existence. Because this…” A hand slid up the shirt. “Is what.”

The spidery fingers dug mercilessly in, blood flowing out. “I do." The other hand gripped his hair. "And you will be helpless to stop it.”

John, with a sickening lurch, understood now. Magnussen was the Napoleon of manipulation, and the very knowledge that there was one person that he could never manipulate…or win over…unleashed a darkness inside him that could not be contained. Magnussen’s eyes were mad with determination, fire.

The dress shirt was torn open, buttons out, and the manipulator brutally scratched his fingers into the exposed flesh, leaving blood tracks. Saliva trailed down Mycroft’s cheeks, bruised lips, and chest, wherever Magnussen’s tongue had went. Magnussen then reached for Mycroft’s pants, fingers reaching under-   

“Please.”

Magnussen looked up. The unspoken word hung in the air. John allowed himself to look at Sherlock for the first time, and the detective’s face had gone pale, eyes shadowed. “Please, stop this.”

“What can you do, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’ll do anything.” Sherlock said. Resignation along with pain shone in his eyes. “….anything.”

“How...loving, from someone whom I thought detested his brother.” Magnussen pulled away, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed. “Alright then. I had my fun, and I enjoyed that very much. Thank you…for the gift.” He ran his tongue over his lips, licking the last traces of saliva and smiled. He straightened his tie and cuffs. “Now let’s go outside and see you arrested.”

“Sherlock, do we have a plan?” John whispered to the detective. Sherlock stood fixed in place, not replying him. He seemed to have gone into shock. “Sherlock.”

In despair, John left, not seeing how Sherlock shut his eyes tightly. He only followed a while later. The night air was frigid cold, biting at John’s face.

“They’re taking their time, aren’t they?” Magnussen mused.

“…I still don’t understand.” John said numbly.

“And there’s the back of the T-shirt.”

“You just know things. How does that work?”

“I just love your little soldier face.” Magnussen mused. “I’d like to punch it. Bring it over here a minute.”

John’s eyes glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock, with a pained expression, nodded shortly, not meeting his eyes.

“’Come on.” Magnussen beckoned. “For Mary. Bring me your face.”

John swallowed, and took two steps towards him.

“Lean forward a bit and stick your face out.” John did as he was told. “Now, can I flick it? Can I flick your face?”

Pursing his lips, John leaned forward. Magnussen flicked a finger sharply across John’s cheek. The doctor flinched involuntarily. Magnussen chuckled. “I just love doing this. I could do it all day. It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed.” Magnussen flicked his face again. “I know where to find people who hate her.” He flicked the doctor again, and again. John refused to break his gaze, glaring at him. “I know where they live; I know their phone numbers. All in my Mind Palace – all of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down – and I  _will_ …unless you let me flick your face.”

He struck John’s face another three times. “This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries…just because I know.” He finished that with satisfaction. “Can I do your eye now? See if you can keep it open, hmm?”

He struck John’s left eyebrow this time and John’s eyes instinctively flinched shut. Magnussen sniggered. “Come on. For Mary. Keep it open.”

“Sherlock.” John said.

“Let him.” John could hear the apology in Sherlock’s voice. “I’m sorry. Just ... let him.”

“Come on. Eye open.” Magnussen continued aiming at John’s eyebrow, a sadistic pleasure growing in his eyes. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? Janine managed it once. She makes the  _funniest_  noises.”

The deafening sound of helicopters filled the air, and suddenly helicopters soared through the dark sky, blinding lights flooding the area. Armed guards rushed towards the patio, guns aimed. A familiar female voice blared through a speaker from the helicopter.

“ _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Stand away from that man_.”

Anthea!

Sherlock turned to Magnussen then shouted, “To clarify: Appledore’s vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there. “

“They’re not real. They never have been!” Magnussen declared.

 “ _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Step away_.” Anthea warned again.

Magnussen waved his hands at the helicopter. “It’s fine! They’re harmless!”

The guards continued moving into position, aiming their rifles towards them. “ _Target is not armed. I repeat, target is not armed._ ”

John looked at the many weapons pointed towards them. “Sherlock, what do we do?”

Magnussen laughed. “Nothing. There’s nothing to be done! Oh, I’m not a villain. I have no evil plan. I’m a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them! Sorry, no chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes.”

“ _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man. Do it now._ ” Anthea repeated.

John had never thought he would die like this. Amidst the deafening chopper sound and situation, John didn’t notice Sherlock’s arm slipping in and out his coat pocket, taking out that one weapon in his pocket.

All of a sudden Sherlock threw his head up and proclaimed loudly, “Oh, do your research. I’m not a hero. I’m a high-functioning sociopath.” Sherlock turned, and pointed the pistol at Magnussen’s forehead. “ _MERRY CHRISTMAS!”_

And he pulled the trigger.

A loud bang exploded in the air.

Blood sprayed out in the air and Magnussen’s body flew backwards. John recoiled in shock. Everything seemed to happen at once.

“ _MAN DOWN, MAN DOWN!_ ” A guard shouted. Sherlock dropped the gun and raised his hands, turning to face the helicopter.

Sherlock jerked his head at the doctor. “Get away from me, John! Stay well back!”

“CHRIST, SHERLOCK!” John cried, raising his own hands as red lasers bombarded them from every direction.

“ _Stand fire! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!_ ” Anthea commanded urgently.

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock.” John repeated mutely.

The helicopter descended, and Anthea flew out, running in front of the pointed guns.

 “Do not fire!” she ordered. “We won’t arrest them. Not yet.”

She held up a hand, and they stood down.

She whipped around to face Sherlock. “Where is he?” she demanded.

He instantly knew who she was talking about. “Inside.”

“Bring me to him.”

They went back in, Anthea’s heels clacking loudly beside him. They reached the couch, and Anthea froze.

Her boss’s shirt was open, hair dishevelled and there were bloody marks on his lips and body.

“He…” One look at her face and he knew she had put together what had occurred.

Sherlock swallowed. “I couldn’t stop it. He had us on the ground and a gun pointed at him.” 

Something likes sympathy seemed to flash the woman’s eyes for a second, but it was quickly gone. She closed her eyes.

“We can hold off the law enforcements till latest dawn, but after that, it is out of our control. We’ll settle the crime scene here. This is the most our team can do.”

_Our team?_

“You mean to say…” he stared at the black-armoured guards that were below and realisation hit him. “They’re all under Mycroft.”

 “Yes. In the case of anything that was to go wrong, we were told to protect you. Make no mistake, they are still part of the law. But Mr Holmes cannot be here. We cannot afford to let him be known. Get him to your flat, and give him the antidote. We’ll have eyes on you.”

“Alright.” Sherlock didn’t know what else to say.

She looked at her boss again, and for once the normally controlled woman looked afraid.  

“Please keep Mr Holmes safe. I…his reputation can’t be ruined. It would…it would get him into a lot of trouble.”

“I know. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“He risked a lot for you, Sherlock. Leave, now. Be safe.”

* * *

 It felt like a dream. A black car drove them back to their flat, and once they were home they locked all the doors and windows, drawing all curtains shut. They were very well aware they were probably being watched outside by Mycroft’s guards. They were essentially trapped, but John didn’t even think of running. They brought Mycroft to Sherlock’s bed and the doctor swiftly administered the antidote, a clear blue liquid with a syringe. He then treated the wounds. Once everything was done, he tucked him under the covers and dropped onto a chair, pressing his face into his hands. 

“An hour, right?” he asked the detective. When he received no reply, he looked behind him. Sherlock stood stock still, staring at his brother. "Sherlock?”

With a jerk, the younger Holmes headed to the kitchen. There was a clatter as he grabbed a basin from the pantry roughly. He came back with a basin of lukewarm water and a towel. Kneeling in front of Mycroft, he dampened the fabric and brushed it over Mycroft’s lips and face almost feverishly. His breath was heavy, expression determined. Once he was finished, he cleaned under the still unbuttoned shirt where Magnussen’s fingers had roamed earlier.

He didn’t know how long Sherlock did it for, cleaning and cleaning, until John was worried Mycroft’s skin would redden. He touched the younger brother’s arm.

"Sherlock, I think he's clean now." John said gently. He took the cloth from the detective’s hands. Sherlock didn’t resist. "Wouldn’t want to redden his skin. Here, sit with me.”

Sherlock sat. John didn’t know what to say. For the first time in a long while, he was at a loss for words. There was the elephant in the room—Sherlock had killed a man. But he had also just seen his brother being violated. Recounting what Magnussen had done…he wanted to hug the detective. But he knew it might not be wise in his current state of mind. Instead, John placed his hands over the detective’s wet ones, and squeezed it.

“He's okay, Sherlock.” John whispered. “He's okay.”

* * *

Almost exactly an hour later, Mycroft awoke. Sherlock had sent a weary John to bed with the promise that he would alert him immediately if there was something wrong. Presently Sherlock dozed in a chair that looked uncomfortable for his lanky frame, but jerked awake when Mycroft shifted. Blue eyes fluttered open slowly.

“You’re awake.”

It took Mycroft a few seconds to answer. His throat was ridiculously parched, so he settled for nodding. Sherlock immediately grabbed the glass of water by the bedside, helping Mycroft sip some.

“Sorry, I forgot you must be thirsty.”

“How long?” he croaked, voice rough from disuse.

“Three hours, if you are referring from the time I drugged you.” And now that he thought about it, three hours seemed like such an absurd amount of time. He had just killed someone and his brother had almost...almost...

“Right, Magnussen…” Mycroft's voice cut off his thoughts. The only sign of anger the elder man showed in response to knowing he had been technically kidnapped was that he pinched the bridge of his nose tightly. “What happened?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “He’s dead.”

Mycroft drew a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, Sherlock…” his brother sighed. Looking at Sherlock he instantly knew at once what had transpired. If there was any time he wanted to be grateful to Mycroft’s calm personality and begrudgingly, intellect, it had to be now. Most normal people would have flown off the handle knowing their sibling had killed someone, but he presumed his brother received all kinds of shocks in the world. “Why?”

“It had to be done.”

Sherlock explained everything that had transpired, including their arrival to Appledore, Magnussen’s non-existent vaults, his motives and threats…

The elder Holmes closed his eyes. For a long while he said nothing, so quiet that Sherlock thought he had slipped back to sleep.

“You could face the death penalty.” His voice was calm.

“I know.”

“I won’t be able to help you. Not this time.”

“I know, Mycroft. I knew the consequences the moment I shot him.”

“Then why do you look so bothered?”

The air seemed to freeze in that second. Mycroft didn’t miss how Sherlock immediately stiffened. The question hung in the air.

“I…” Sherlock couldn’t finish. It was extremely rare for Sherlock to not have a retort, especially towards his brother.

Something was wrong. Mycroft waited quietly.

“It went...wrong.”

“If you’re talking about the shot…”

“It’s not about the shot.” He said a tad too hurriedly.

Mycroft frowned. Since young he had always prided himself for being able to read his brother as easily as an elementary book, but now he couldn’t read him at all. “It shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have been that way." Sherlock seemed to be talking to himself.

“What happened?” Mycroft asked. Why couldn’t he read his brother at all? “What happened, Sherlock?”

“Magnussen…when…” Sherlock’s tongue seemed to be stuck. His hands curled into fists, knuckles white. “When you were unconscious he…he...touched you.” He didn’t dare to look at his brother’s face. His voice trembled as he spoke. “He...he tried to rape you. He said he wanted to dominate you as his revenge. I couldn’t stop it. His henchmen had both John and I down. He threatened to shoot you if we moved.”

“Sherlock…”

“I couldn’t stop it, Mycroft. I watched as he had his hands around your neck… kissed you and…and molested you everywhere with his hands and tongue. I was naïve. I had been so sure.  _So sure_. For all the intelligence I proclaimed to have I was a fool. This had been my plan, my offer,  _my_  thinking—I should have predicted what a sick bastard like him would do but I didn’t, Mycroft.  _I didn’t know.”_

Sherlock whispered out that last sentence out with horror, his face white.

“Sherlock. It’s okay.” Mycroft said, but Sherlock had gone lost in his own world, his eyes haunted.

“No. It’s not okay. That filth is on you. We need to get you clean. I did it earlier but it’s not enough.”

Sherlock grabbed the wet towel from the basin on the bedside table, wiping Mycroft’s chest.

“I’ll take a bath later,” Mycroft attempted to reassure him. Sherlock didn’t seem to hear, his actions fervent. “Sherlock,” he finally held Sherlock’s frantic fingers tightly under his grasp. His younger brother tried to break free. “Sherlock, listen to me.”

Sherlock looked up. Blue eyes shone bright with fear, guilt and shame, a tormented combination. They shone with stubbornly unshed tears, and Mycroft’s heart broke.

“Oh, Sherlock…”

The elder Holmes then did something unexpected. He pulled Sherlock gently into his arms. The body stiffened at first, unused to it, but soon relaxed.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said.

“It's alright,” Mycroft rested his brother’s head into his shoulder. “It's alright, Sherlock. We've all made unfortunate decisions. You didn’t know.”

“I…I didn’t think he would ever do that to you. I didn’t  _think_ …”

“Not everyone would have been able to predict what he would do. That’s what made him insane and difficult to control.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Affection was extremely rare for the Holmes brothers, let alone physical affection. They had never been the feeling type. That was a well-established fact since young. The last time they had even hugged was when Sherlock was a child. But there were some times that affection spoke more than words. They rested that way for a long while, just two brothers buried in each other’s shoulders.

“I’ll never make a deal like that again.”  Sherlock said.

“Don’t say that too soon.”

“I wish I cut out that tongue, broke those fingers one by one.”

“You shot him in the head.”

“That’s not good enough,” he mumbled.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been through worse.”

That shouldn’t have surprised him, Mycroft was or had been affiliated with M16 after all, but it did. He looked at his older brother in a new light. It was not a topic they ever talked of. Whatever his brother did was his business; Sherlock cared nothing for it. Sherlock then remembered also that he had been only 24 when he had entered the organisation.

All these years, and what had he known about his brother’s suffering? He hadn’t thought of what his brother might have been through, how it would affect him. Sherlock closed his eyes, and promised to understand more. But for now, he was contented with the way they were.  

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo. I don’t think I’ve written that long. This story had been months in the making, sitting in my documents file sporadically updated but never finished. And now it’s done. If there are any mistakes, feel free to let me know. It's 1.52AM. I notice that my endings to Mycroft and Sherlock stories are similar, but oh I just cant resist some hurt/comfort from Sherlock.
> 
> Also, this is the first time I've actively written anything remotely sexual, so, ahem, any advice is welcome. 
> 
> I really appreciate kudos and/or reviews if you enjoyed this. Thank you!
> 
>  


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